A Poem Starts With A Lump in the Throat

I think of my mother sometimes.
Her bangled hands as she hangs up the phone, goodnight beta, jaldi so jaana,
And her sigh as the sounds end.
The curtains of my home are the same. The cups we drink tea in, same–
A different number.
Her bangled hands as she strains the tea. She's busy. She gets busy.
With or without me–
And there is laughter on the dinner table that i am not aware of.
I take a step forward and the world moves with me. Does this not mean that it only moves
When I step forward?
The sunlight flits through my window, disappointed as it does not find the frame of my body lazing on the bed.
The cups do not find the slivers of my fingers curling across their body.
The floor does not find the sounds of my feet padding across–
To open the door when my father gets home;
And my father does not find me when he gets home.
My heart settles amidst new trees and squirrels. But i left something back home,
Something i cannot reach and something they cannot find.
And the something weighs me down sometimes.
Sometimes, when i think of my mother, with her bangled hands,
Reaching to the sky to stroke my face,
And i, compelled by some force–
Raise my face at once,
To the moon.
I rest my head at night and think of the quiet of my home.
The world fades out
Only to fade back in tomorrow–
And the something weighs me down again,
And the something weighs me down, again.